Layman terms

A single handful
of random people
really
understand astrophysics-
particularly excluding women
that choose cosmetology
over cosmology-
when trying to turn back time.

Look inside the steeple,
only this many people
read poetry.
They gather to create volume-
mass,
in order to absorb the familiar
echoes of shared words-
also known by
Belief.

Nobody reads anymore
between the lines,
along the marginalia,
the mean matches the median,
rounded to zero.

At least there seems to be
never enough
Time
to explore other dimensions
completely
and related matters
in(di)visible as a (w)hole.





Artwork by Charles Demuth [No restrictions or Public domain], 'Roofs and steeple' c. 1921 via Wikimedia Commons.

“Beam me up, Scottie!”

He was changed

in more ways than they will say.

A year away will do that to a man.

Genes are the conditions we share,

more than hand me down denim.

It seems seven is a stellar symbol

to mark the rate of change.

(Inspired by forthcoming study and official announcement by NASA)

Photo credit By NASA/Robert Markowitz [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Concerning: Generic Water

In 1986,
we could drink out of the tap

and it was considered barbaric

               (well water as it was)

but it was so good.

That was there, this is now

that everyone drinks in disposable 

pervasive clear canteens.

In 2018,
there was mass poisoning by the sterilizing-

worst case scenario-better safe than sorry so 

saturated with leachating preservatives 

used as a precaution.

Inevitably,

pieces dissolved, as they tend to do

(entropy) 

         in manufactured self-containment-

well, people and plastics became one,

bonded.

In the eighties,

I remember walking home, wading in the creek.

My musty Vans tied by their laces to my backpack strap

after school, Genius, I thought, 

bottled water, readymades, ant farms, crystal gardens,

pet rocks, canned air, and jarred fireflies sealed with a kiss.

I ingest the red woods and taste bliss.

In 1978,
at the grocery store,

the generic brand of anything 

was white or yellow, the basic packaging.

It was good enough, cheaper even

to not say everything.

Also, 

my mother told me I always wanted a toy

and I would toddle up to strange men,
                      (also grocery shopping) 

and ask them if they were my daddy.

Today,
I still return from the grocery store without
everything I need.

My kids asked about the Mexican men posted up

outside Home Depot(s), 

I told them about outside labor

          (fathers on back-order) and say

if Toy’s R Us had this (for lazy parents),

they would still be in business.

Nine-tenths of the time,

poverty and water obey the laws
of thermodynamics.
Both are
Being and Event. 

In 2018,
I am grateful for everything that I never had.

She oft-quoted Nietzsche with knowing

where it came from or

it made me stronger.

I cannot see everything my body does for me, thankfully.

It would be terribly distracting to have transparent packaging,

I believe this would make everyone less appealing.

In 1989, 

I can clearly see my naked feet under the flowing water

of the Little Bear Creek,

rippled sun rolls over the enlarged mole
atop my left foot,

my soles are both slippery, I notice

how the liquid moves in a cool hurry

                 but only I move the stones.

Yesterday

I thought of all the Springs passed,

and my own mothering nearer to

reaching the sea, it has dawned on me
finally,

we are all temporarily employed

Here 

with our shoes, our guns, our molded plastics,

plain packaging

we call watertight-

forgetting this too

is subject to corrosion. 

Artwork: Лесной ручей. Весной. 1890, холст, масло, 75х56 Forest creek. Spring. 1890 {{Creator:Grigorij Grigorjewitsch Mjassojedow}} {{PD-art}} From http://lj.rossia.org/users/john_petrov/96740.html

Professor

He spoke of the same humbling
Revelation
As if he had just learned it
himself
forgetting he had said this
every time I met him-

The first time
it was
news (to me)
Now, he says
it as Truth.

It may be so
fascinating, even true, however,
there are reasons
it is
he will never know.



Image credit by Metropolitan Museum of Art [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The world in a puddle

Shiny onyx paved streets that shine 

like oil

kaleidoscope reflections of topaz gems

yellow lamplights tossed from windows

makes me warm

inside.

Lullaby metronomes count water

droplets, clepsydra down the side of the house,

this eave, my gutter

fills, pours this bass beads across paving stones

reminiscent of a game of puddle hop-scotch

I count the treble, 

it answers the hydraulophone

inside me.

That musty smoke that lingers like dye

in the sky, leaking out of rooftop chimneys,

house pipes blow and issue

a rescue signal, 

for those inside.

Countless poets have captured this in smaller 

rain barrels commonly called buckets.

We lost some along the way,

which accounts for the change in overall volume,

by composition, ice is also vaporous. 

Drops do both ways.

Nobody cared,

these were not the ideal conditions for thirst 

or poetry,

water was everywhere, like supply versus demand

as far as they could see, 

there was no end

to verses. 

Image credit By English: thesandiegomuseumofartcollection (Flickr) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

S(h)ervant

I have served between eight and twenty-five 

thousand meals for my family,

I make coffee for them more than once per day,

equating to tens of thousands of perky hot pots.

I have given away my last dollar countless times,

I have shared the best bite, held my breath,

I have waited eternities all the while diluting myself,

watering patience back to life in the long afternoon heat. Thirsted for a moment.

I have dried tears, kissed scrapes, wiped milk, picked up,

and cheered up others, all while crawling on my hands and knees.

Does it count?

How many socks have I matched or single-handedly lost?

How many squares of cloth have I folded in nice ninety-degree angles?

How many circles have I Venn in?

How many bubbles have I burst?

How many sides have I taken

down only to expose what was hollow inside?

I have said the three words 'I love you'

and they have not all come back around 

on any one or two

ellipse-this is

proof of expansion or an open Universe, 

no place like Home.

My hands are callused, my feet are blistered and tender,

my eyes are faded and brittle, my skin gets heavier day by day,

and my hair glistens faintly like brass,

my cartilage collapses and all my salt sloughs off.

What is left to make of this? 

I have forgetten how freedom is one-sided and furthermore I have failed 

to recall my name when I am most lost, 

when I am too busy, when the last course

is done, when the words, 'my pleasure' meant motive,

when advantage was a taken

and Time 

was given.

What will be said about what is done?

I put this here, so someday they may say,

Her sentence had served her well. 

Painting by Jules Lefebvre, 'Servant' c. 1880 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ilk-some

He was the kind of guy that would say,
                   my pleasure,
and from that point forward
add interest.
He was the kind of guy that held resentment
tenderly in his palm
                   while revealing a warm smile.

A gentleman does not tell
who he calls Beautiful
                   all the time
He was a kind and gentle man it would seem
to many
too many women.

He was the kind of guy that liked to drive
and scare his passengers.
He was the go to guy,
the kind that goes to extremes.

You know the kind of passionate man
who projects his desires outward,
the type that wants women
to reflect this same desire,
his wants and those wanting him-only
at his fingertips...

On his lips
                   lies more than truth.

The kind of guy who mouths one thing
but means two,
who denies what he does not remember,
repeats what he hears,
who walks with an air
                   he thinks doubles as a smoke screen.

He is the breed of human who has been;
in love
dishonest
rebellious
covetous
oblivious
                   to having lost all trust
when he wasn't looking
and subsequently stopped earning interest.

Day after day, a toll is taken, and then again
I hear him say, I have to go
                   and yet I stay,
waiting in kind for a different guy.



Portrait by Vincent Rodes c. 1820, located in Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.